The Wand Chooses The Wizard, The Wizard Chooses The Witch
by vlad the inhaler
Summary: A take on Ell Roche's "Pure-blood Culture": Lady Astoria Greengrass has waited long enough, her father's offer of betrothal neither accepted nor refused by Lord Potter. It is time to discover why.


**Author's Note:** This piece is not so much a work of Harry Potter fanfiction as it is an Ell Roche fanfiction. I wrote it entirely as a mental exercise, attempting to imitate her style and language and world-building. I found the result satisfactory.

This sort of story is not for everyone – Ell's work takes the magic, world, and cast of Harry Potter and inserts it into a fantastical combination of Downton Abbey, Jane Austin, and the world of Faerie Tales. They are the sort of stories I imagine are canon in the sense that we would find them on the bookshelves of Daphne Greengrass or Susan Bones. Her storytelling is so inherently _magical_ in a way that transcends 99% of the fandom, myself included.

If you do find this story to your liking and you have not read Ell's works, then I highly recommend you do so. She is currently going by the penname **Ellory** on this site.

Thank you. Please enjoy.

* * *

 _The Wand Chooses The Wizard, The Wizard Chooses The Witch_

Lady Astoria Greengrass looked into the mirror once more, making sure the back of her robes were properly smoothed and did not bunch nor snag, and that her hair was held high upon her head, each and every strand held perfectly in place by an assortment of charms that she had known by rote long before she boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time. It was a shame in a way that she could not 'look her best', with toffee-coloured curls cascading down her nape and pooling in ringlets down beyond her shoulders. Of course, _that_ was a look she would keep confined to herself within the confines of her family home until she would one day share it with her husband, a pleasure for his eyes alone. She was hardly some slattern who would forsake such a gift due one day to her betrothed for an advantage of _seduction_.

Yes, her hair was fine, well-coiffed and bounded tight with a ribbon of turquoise. "That will do," she spoke to the mirror after one final run through of her brush, one stray spiral bouncing back into place when she was finished. Her reflection turned around, facing her once more.

"You look lovely, dear," the mirror offered with motherly affection.

"Thank you," Astoria replied, not one to allow manners to slide simply because one's supporter was naught but an enchantment. She ignored the titters coming from Louise and Beth, two muggleborns who oft giggled at what they called her _eccentricities_ , as if etiquette were something that belonged safely ensconced in a locked truck or as an exhibit in the traveling show. Instead she kept her eyes on her reflection-self, which offered her a shallow nod of affirmation. Today of all days, Astoria felt that she could use all the comfort that she might receive from whatever the source, for today she dared much, and even the House of Ravenclaw – though hardly Slytherin in its expectations of what was proper for a well-bred pureblood witch – was likely to take her actions today poorly, should all go awry.

Taking a deep breath, Astoria walked away from the bronze-plated Cheval glass and returned to her bed, drawing the canopy open and retrieving her wand: eight and a quarter inches, holly, unicorn hair, once belonging to her great-grandmother and her mother's gift to her on her tenth birthday, when she had spoken her Witch's Oath on Morgana's name. It was a delicate wand, almost fragile in appearance; a perfectly smooth cord of wood absent a single knot or warping and so pale it was almost white, with strings of faint silver runes that ran up its length in two intertwining lines, offering supplications to Magic Itself to protect and provide for the wand's caster, and declarations that the wand would never be used to desecrate the gifts it had been blessed with. The wand had been hewn from a three-year aged branch of the oldest holly at _Fengrene,_ the Greengrass ancestral home, and harvested on the eve of the winter solstice. Her great-grandfather had not fletched the wand himself when he commissioned the wand as the centerpiece of Lady Astoria Carrow's dowry, but he had ensured the work of one who knew his craft well, and understood the value of being granted the wood of a tree so deeply rooted to the Greengrass line.

She knew – though she would never speak of it – that some of the more _uncouth_ boys would see a wand as small as hers as a sign of weakness. This was folly of course, and though Astoria knew in truth that a wands physical presence had no impact on its capabilities nor the strength of Magic's blessing upon the witch in question, she liked to think that her wand – petite, delicate, and more than capable – fit her like a properly ordered Yule gown from _Twillfit & Tattings_.

And as the second daughter of her house, she was grateful that her beloved mother and father had entrusted her with such a treasured heirloom; now forever part of her own inheritance, to one day be passed down to a daughter of her own. One mayhap with toffee hair that fell in ringlets and bright, piercing, emerald eyes.

 _Tempus_. A quarter past four. Naught to be done for it, the hour was upon her.

 _Where on earth is she going tarted up like that? Who even dresses like that anymore, anyway?_

She ignored them, careful to not even give them the satisfaction of allowing a sneer to mar her face, or some cutting vernacular to cross her tongue. If anything, she supposed – though she admittedly could not bring herself to do so – they deserved her pity, not her scorn.

Stowing her wand carefully upon her person she turned around and walked out of the dormitory, leaving behind cruel whispers and then continued through the Ravenclaw common room that was thankfully vacant save for three first-years playing exploding snap in front of the fire who took no notice of her; and began to make her way down the tower and through the Halls of Hogwarts towards the quidditch pitch, where she knew the Gryffindor team should be finishing their afternoon practice as the October evening rushed to extinguish the late afternoon light. It was a credit to her mother's lessons and her own ability to learn them that she maintained a measured, graceful pace, and did not simply stomp through the castle like she were Granger charging towards the library five minutes before it were to close.

The warmth of the dying sun did little against the biting autumn breeze, and Astoria shivered until she remembered to cast a warming charm, silently chastising herself for not having the wits to do so before stepping outside. It would do no good to test the boundaries of propriety as she had girded herself to do if she went about it with the brains of a half-addled house elf!

She could see it now, the quidditch pitch, rising above the treeline and into view now that she had rounded The Wailing Turret. Her heart pattered faster, and then she saw _him_ \- little more than a tiny outline silhouetted in a deep red sky, but she had watched him long enough, seen him sit high upon that broom as if he were the Cloud Mage from her childhood tales, overseeing his domain, to know his posture and profile by heart. Lord Harry Potter.

Quietly she entered the arena, taking a seat on one of the long benches and looking up at the sky, where the Gryffindor team zigged and zagged, the three chasers weaving as one towards the goals while one of the beaters tried to disrupt them, the other concentrated his efforts attempting to debroom Har- no, she reminded herself. They had not, had never been properly introduced. She could not afford to forget. Where he tried to debroom _Lord Potter._ For a moment soon after, her breath caught... but undoubtedly he had not been looking at her at all, but simply trying to find the elusive snitch. Even if he had seen her, she thought with a sigh, dusk was fast approaching and he would likely assume she was his longtime companion Hermione Granger, if he even thought of it at all.

"Right, that's enough for tonight," Lord Potter's voice broke through the crisp air, and the players rapidly descended, clearly eager to depart for the warmth of their house common room, where no doubt the elves would have already prepared fresh clothes and hot, sweet drinks of _amberwine_ or mulled pumpkin cider.

She took a breath – it was now or never – and she stood up, wand firmly in hand, and whispered a single incantation.

A flurry of pink and orange sparks flew lazily from her wand, shooting up a good twenty feet before fading into nothingness.

Seven brooms and their riders turned and flew towards her.

"Oi! It's a 'claw," a dark haired boy holding one of the beater's bats exclaimed, pointing at her like she were on display at the Coventry Menagerie, a rare dancing diricawl or dolled up kneazle. She hid her frown and kept her eyes solely on Lord Potter. Thankfully, he was not gawking at her, but sat silently on his broom, eyes curious but respectful.

She stood up then, hands dancing to the hems of her robes before she sank into a deep curtsey, keeping her eyes focused just under his own. "Lord Potter," she spoke slowly, fighting to keep her voice from shaking. "If I might request a word with you. I apologize for coming to you in the midst of your companions, but I'm afraid our respective schedules do not leave much."

He opened his mouth to speak.

"What are you playing at, Greengrass," Ginevra spat. "And why are you spying on us?"

Her heart sank – it was well known throughout the school that Ginevra Weasley – she would not stoop to the common form even if the silly girl insisted upon using it herself – was one of Harry's closest confidantes. She was thankful at least that the sun had faded enough that they could not see the redness of her cheeks. It would not do to allow one so low – whose family had spurned Magic's greater gifts – to address her as if Astoria was naught but some orphaned foundling that Ginevra had discovered on her Lord's front steps.

"That's enough," Lord Potter spoke, his tone sharp. "Everyone – changing rooms. I'll be along in ten."

The Weasley girl scowled at her, but she departed with the others, and Harry flew lazily towards her, coming down next to her in a slow corkscrew before stepping off his broom and taking a seat next to her, relief evident on his face as he was able to relax on a proper sitting – cushioning charms were no substitute for proper support, and she supposed it was unlikely that a broom with as many racing charms as a _Firebolt_ would even tolerate the weakest such comfort enchantments.

"I do not believe we have been introduced," he said at last with a smile in his voice. "Harry Potter."

She bowed her head. "Astoria Greengrass, Lord Potter," she replied, daring now to meet his eyes. He was frowning.

"Please, call me Harry," he replied, seeming quite off-kilter.

"Forgive me," she all but whispered, "but I think I would prefer to call you Lord Potter, Lord Potter."

"Right well... in that case, shall I call you Lady Greengrass..." he asked after a moment's hesitation, continuing after receiving a small nod. "What can I do for you? Is this about your sister?"

She gasped, wondering what on earth Daphne could have done to so arouse Lord Potter's ire.

"No, Lord Potter – though I apologize if she has given you any offense. As you can imagine, it is a difficult time to be a member of House Slytherin," she spoke quickly, torn between her need to show loyalty to her sister while saving face if her mission had inadvertently been sabotaged by whatever new clash had erupted between Lord Potter and her sister's housemates.

"No – your sister and I aren't exactly friends, but I've never seen her hanging around with Malfoy." Lord Potter was looking at her now, eyes that seemed to bear into her very soul and make it sing its secrets to him. "Forgive me, Astor- I mean, Lady Greengrass," his tone slightly bashful, "I have been presumptuous. What did you wish to talk to me about?"

If possible, her heart sank even lower. For him to assume this was about her sister's behavior – and in truth, she had doubted that Daphne, even surrounded by the knaves and charlatans who currently sullied the noble name of House Slytherin, would have given one so beloved of Magic as Lord Potter cause for offense – was bad enough. But to now speak as if he had _no_ _idea_ of her plight whatsoever... was she that forgettable and unremarkable? Was she truly seeking heights so far beyond her station that she did not even merit notice? She prayed fervently not, even as her world crumbled around her.

Like every young witch of her generation, she had been raised on tales of Harry Potter, T _he Boy-Who-Lived_ , who had destroyed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Abomination, as a babe, Magic's chosen child to vanquish the Abomination who sought to subdue Magic and twist its purity for his own nefarious purposes. She would not pretend that at first, she had thought of Lord Potter as an almost mythological figure, a gallant and noble knight in search of a princess... even if said princess was the second daughter of an ancient-but-diminished House.

And then like starving Grindylows the gossips and silvertongues had sought to rip Lord Potter to shreds, and even before he had so much as arrived at Hogwarts for his sorting, slanderous words coated in sugar were already winding their way through the pages of _Witch Weekly_ and _The Daily Prophet_ , the likes of Rita Skeeter spreading her perfidious poison. Lord Potter had turned his back on _Magic_. Lord Potter had chosen to reside with _muggles_. Lord Potter had no concerns for _mere_ wizards and witches who sent gifts and letters of well wishes every birthday, every Hallow's Eve, every Mayday.

His arrival at Hogwarts had stilled the rumors for some time, but then – as if merely held back like water behind a wall of sediment, they had burst through and fallen even harder than before. Lord Potter consorted only with muggleborns and traitors of magic. Lord Potter wore muggle clothing at all times beneath his robes, and poorly kept clothes at that, as if Hogwarts were not a sacred place of Magic deserving of decorum and respect. Lord Potter attended no fetes, no ministerial functions, no familial gatherings to which he had always been invited.

Slowly, in nurseries from Godric's Hollow to Banshee's Cove, _The Boy-Who-Lived_ was replaced with _Beedle the Bard_ once more.

It pained Astoria to admit that her own childhood had not been exempt, and though she had prayed every night to Morgana that the savior of the wizarding world did not now find them so unworthy, she had come to Hogwarts prepared to be heartbroken.

She had been... surprised.

First, by Lord Potter himself, who – superficially – did in truth meet every attack levied against him by the press. But her shock was reserved for the callow wizards and witches in the wider world, who were so blind that they could not see what was so obvious below the surface. For Lord Potter clearly had not abandoned magic – he all but glowed with it. Any fool should have been able to see that Lord Potter loved Magic, but did they not remember, even as they shelved his stories, that he had been made an orphan on the day he had saved them all from the abomination's madness? That as a babe being raised by muggles had hardly been a _choice._

Her heart had indeed broken, but only for the sight of the hero they ought to have done everything for, being forced to wonder the halls of the school with a look of awe and wonder that made every muggleborn stick out like a wounded hippogriff in a teashop, even amongst the seventh years. Oh, wizards and witches up and down Britain had felt themselves satisfied at sending silly tokens – packages of chocolate frogs and Bernie Bott's beans, perhaps something a touch more ostentatious from those seeking to regain their place in society, such as Lord Malfoy... but they had never taken the time to truly _care_.

If only she had been two years older, she might have aided Lord Potter more directly, but by the time the sorting hat sat upon her head he was entering his third year, and his circle of friends – imperfect though they were – were just that, a circle. Closed off to Ravenclaw girls with hair that fell in toffee ringlets.

But the Greengrass family had not thrived in the good and survived in the bad by being idle and guileless. Lord Potter was a powerful wizard and though cruelly and unfairly ignorant of the wizarding world, had never given Magic cause for offense. Soon enough, the fools would recognize their folly, and as soon as they did they would inundate him with honeyed words and shining coin. The owls would fly, offering to conjoin House Potter with House Bones, or House Brown, or House Runestone. And, she thought (perhaps if she were honest to herself somewhat enviously) why _wouldn't_ Lord Potter be interested in Lady Susan or Lady Lavender, both who were in the full bloom of maidenhood? Both came from families that, if not as old as hers, were in ascendency since the fall of the abom-

He would have no place in his heart for a mere second daughter of a house struggling to reclaim favor lost among men, though never among Magic.

And so, with the same flurry of activity that had spared Alfred Greengrass in 1066 while the cream of Saxon wizardy had been all but decapitated, Astoria had moved with due haste and decisiveness. It had taken the better part of two years, and at times resorting to behavior that might, perhaps ungenerously, be considered less than ladylike. She had begged her father to consider Lord Potter, to make a betrothal offer for her hand. And at least, as her third year was coming to an end, he had granted his youngest daughter's most sincere wish and met with his solicitor and sent the letter – and not a moment too soon, as without warning Lord Potter was once more being hailed as 'The Chosen One', the savior of wizarding society that he had never turned his back on, even while _it_ had turned its back on him.

Of course, being ahead of the mark mattered for less than an orphaned krupp on the corner of Knockturn Alley if Lord Potter did not only refuse, but did not find her worthy of even consideration, as if the very idea of her was so offensive -

"Lady Greengrass?"

Her head snapped up, curls bouncing ever so slightly as she looked up at him.

He smiled, kind laughter inflecting his voice, "You were lost there for a moment, Lady Greengrass."

"I'm sorry, my Lord," she whispered, cheeks flaming until she was sure they must match Ginevra's hair. Made much worse by the way he called her "Lady Greengrass" as if it were but a name, sounding so wickedly familiar and yet, by all odds surely felt he was merely humoring an oddity. Her mind flashed back to the two muggleborns who had tittered about her behind their hands. No – surely Lord Potter was not so base.

"You had something you needed to tell me?" he led gently.

She nodded, and with the reckless courage that his house was known for she ordered her hands to cease trembling and looked him in the eye.

"Have I so offended you, my Lord, that you do not even decline my father's offer? Do you find me that unfavorable to look upon? I apologize for whatever offense I have done you that makes you feel I am so lowly to not even merit refusal."

She turned away – she could not bear to see the look in his eyes when realization struck that _this_ was why she had braved his scrutiny.

The silence roared. But a moment – or an hour – later, his hand took her own. Larger, of course, covering hers, and rough. A warrior's hands, not a pampered prince like Heir Malfoy.

"I believe it is I who owe an apology, not you, Lady Greengrass," came the reply.

She shook her head softly, though she did not pull away. Even if propriety suggested she ought, she would – if only here, if only for this moment – indulge, as if he were holding her beneath the stars on the balcony of Potter Manor.

"I will be having words with my magical guardian," his voice was sterner now, dare she say it, lordly, in a way he never seemed to be surrounded by his motley collection of misfit friends."He means well but at times his... eccentricity leads him to forget about the more, shall we say, aesthetic elements of our world."

"I am sure Professor Dumbledore means well," she replied, unsure how to respond to this turn of events.

Confusion marred his brow. "What does Professor Dumbledore have to do with my upbringing?" he asked, equal parts amused and curious.

Did he truly not know? "Lord Potter... it has been long known that it is Professor Dumbledore who has claimed responsibility for you, ever since..." she trailed off, even though she had strayed far beyond the pale tonight, she would not bring him the pain of explicitly recalling the deaths of the late Lord and Lady Potter.

To her relief, Lord Potter laughed. "Very little of what everyone knows turns out to be true, as I am sure you are aware. No, Professor Dumbledore is just that – a Professor. One who has looked out for me for certain, but hardly responsible for my upbringing outside of these castle walls."

She looked up, and she knew now that it was she who appeared lost, a visage of bewilderment. This went against everything she had heard though – she admitted too late – Lord Potter was not amiss to point out that _everything_ regarding him was a generous stretching of the truth, to say the least!

"I return every summer to my muggle aunt and uncle, of course," Harry continued, seemingly unaware of the inner turmoil as Astoria processed this revelation. "But thankfully this uphappy situation only lasts a fortnight – the majority of my summers are spent with Lord Ollivander. He has taken me on as his apprentice and, in theory, it would appear, has promised to ensure I do not graduate from Hogwarts lacking a proper education."

If the knowledge that Lord Potter was not a ward of Dumbledore – knowledge that would bring the current political alignment of the Wizengamot to its knees – then word that Lord Ollivander had at long last found a successor – his family line all but ground to extinction during the reign of the Abomination – would shake the entire magical _world._

How could Lord Potter speak to her of these things as if it were naught but the day's broomracing outcomes!?

"I assume of course, that the offense you think you have done me is due to not responding to your correspondence?"

She nodded. Harry sighed, running one hand through windswept hair, in stark contrast to her own. She found she liked the dichotomy between them.

"As I'm sure you are aware, the wizarding world is... fickle, where I am concerned," he explained, and she could detect the a tinge of long-repressed bitterness that ran through his voice for just a moment.

"As a child in a muggle household, the law sensibly prevented any owl mail prior to my Hogwarts letter from arriving. A wise precaution, given the number of cursed letters the DMLE dealt with on return." Astoria paled at that, having thought that not even a death eater would stoop so low as to attempt to assassin a small child – though a moment later she felt foolish, realizing Lord Potter himself was a testament to the levels at which those who happily defiled Magic would stoop.

"And after a string of rather unpleasant hexes following my admission into the Triwizard Tournament, Lord Ollivander suggested we simply redirect all mail to an abandoned quarry outside of Shap." Harry chuckled, "it is well known that Lord Ollivander is something of a recluse outside of his worklife, and it did not occur to either of us that anything of import might be lost."

She thought her heart might break out her chest – she ought to have placed a silencing charm within her robes when she cast the warming charm. Could she sound any more wanton!

"You did not receive my father's letter," she whispered breathlessly, eyes wide and looking up at him once more.

He shook his head, a thin frown on his face.

"I did not. Your father's?" he asked slowly, thinking hard. "Why would your father write to me, and why might I think that – ah."

Ah, indeed.

"I beg you not to think me so presumptuous, Lord Potter," she said hastily before the silence could settle thickly down upon them. "I am sure that now that you are aware, you will find you have had offers from many worthier witches than myself. I ask only that you do not th-"

"Lady Greengrass. _Astoria_ ," he interrupted her, and she feared she might need to cast the summoning charm, for at the sound of her own name caressed from his lips her heart quit its mere puttering and seemed intent on closing the space between them entirely, her physical body a mere inconvenience to be overcome. No matter what happened now, she was sure that one day this moment would enable her to finally cast the _Patronus_ charm that she had thus far attempted in vain.

He pulled something out of his pocket with a flourish. It was his wand... no, it was not. From the announcements following _The Weighing of the Wands_ – she knew his own wand was holly like her own, but with a phoenix feather and eleven inches; _this_ wand on the other hand was unquestionably English Oak, and at least an even foot in length was her best guess. But the _finery_ – unlike her own with its intertwining lines of runes, here was a latticework of rings that ran up the length of the wand until they halted just below its tapered point, forming an impossibly intricate pattern that was not merely etched onto but carved in the woodwork so as to be part of the integral structure of the wand itself. There were runes of course - at the base, she could see _cēn_ and _ēar_ wrapped together, a popular combination that was said to protect one from a treacherous death. But on both sides were not the customary decorative patterns or even further runework, but a stag and doe, facing one another, running out of the runes as naturally as water drops off a mountainside. This pattern of runes and animal motif worked its way up the entire wand, until _lagu_ – an unusual rune for a wand – feathered into a silhouette of a large dog.

It was unquestionably the most beautiful wand she had ever seen.

"As you can see, my guardian has not been utterly amiss in my education," Lord Potter continued. "Though I confess the first thirty attempts did not come out half so well. This past summer – I had quite a lot of time with which to work," she had to strain herself slightly to catch the tail of what he said, his voice hushed but full of sorrow.

"But, none of that, for now." He said after a moment before she could even offer words of comfort, trite though they may have been. "When I first began to shape the wand, I reflected much on family – and how mine had been taken from me. But as I worked, I found a new source of hope – that I might one day have a son who on the day of his own oaths to the heritage of Merlin and on Magic Itself, would take this wand. A son by a witch who I have watched with growing fondness for the past three years – one who never fluttered in the winds of fortune. I will send a note to your father, expressing my gravest apologies for my error and ask if he might see fit to send his letter once more."

He squeezed her hand, where she had been so entranced she had almost forgot he was still holding her gently in her lap.

She gasped. She had not been prepared for this! She had prepared her heart and mind for stoicism in the face of catastrophe. Not for, not for...

She opened her mouth to respond – but of course, nothing came out. The magic of Morgana would not allow her at her tender age to say anything so foolish as to swear her love to a boy, even a hero, even a gentleman as kind and honorable as Lord Potter, whose eyes now held nothing but steadfast affection. Not while no betrothal had yet been arranged, no rites of Magic had been exchanged.

She could scream – no, worse – she could hex the entire Ravenclaw House, such was her pique at being denied at what should have been a moment of rapturous joy. Irrationally, perhaps, but panic began to set it – what if he took her silence for denial, that he thought she had come to see him merely to assuage her own vanity and pride, and cared little for the arrangement itself?

She would later, reading her father's stern letter – (though he would never humiliate her publicly with something so base as a Howler, thank Magic!) with a calm mind and a heart no longer racing like a frightened thestral – admit that it had been an utterly foolish thing to do, something she would one day berate her own children for even _considering_ , let alone acting as if a naïve muggleborn maiden caught in the thrall of the rankest love potion.

She kissed him, pouring the maelstrom of emotions running wild through her into her magic and into her _Maiden's Kiss_ – the first kiss of a maiden, willingly given, and Magic's one allowance to young witches that they might show themselves capable of prudence in the thrall of love.

She could never say if it were some effect of Magic or her own imagination – or mayhap some combination of the two – but the roaring in her ears became an angelic symphony and the stars themselves, now dotting the night sky seemed to flare and dance, even though she swore her own eyes were closed. She felt his magic wrap itself around her, passionate, yes, but protective and comforting at the same time. A tendril of her own touched his, and she summoned her feeling of affection, all the joy she had taken watching his successes from afar and concern at his hardships, her scorn for those that slandered him and sorrow that she were not able to stand in public by his side. She begged Magic to let him understand that it was _he_ she wished to bind herself to through betrothal and the Oaths, not some high and mighty public image or fancy name, as if he were the peer of Gilderoy Lockhart, the foppish rake it had been her fortune to avoid from her sister's telling.

So lost was she for a moment in their intermingling magic that it did not register that he had stood up, pulling her gently with him, strong arms holding her as possessively as his magic as he moved closer and returned her kiss and – her eyes jolted open, wide in shock. _The Imprint_. Perhaps less important and thus only a minor magical blessing when held in comparison to the _Maiden's Kiss_ ; but nonetheless, for Lord Potter to share this with _her_!

"I am sorry I did not, but surely, that is-" her mouth outraced her mind by a thousand paces, and she took a deep breath, calming herself as much as she could, given the eve's whirlwind of events.

"You gave me your I _mprint,_ " she said at last, and even now she could feel a trace of his magic surrounding her, protecting her. And she most certainly sounded like an adoring pureborn lady who nonetheless knew her own worth, and _not_ like a waif gifted some shiny trinket!

"Yes," he replied, his voice dry even as his eyes danced. "And you gave me your _Maiden's Kiss_."

"I would give it to no other," she said, quick and breathless and sincere. "But I had thought, that is to say that... Cho and Ginevra-"

"Chang and Weasley are friends," he cut her off. "And though I confess at times I considered... seeking more than that, I never have."

Magic help her but she did not swoon.

"I must change," he gestured to his quidditch robes. "But perhaps you will join me at Gryffindor table this evening? You would be well received."

She gave him a small smile and bowed her head slightly. "It would be a pleasure, Lord Potter."

He chuckled, mounting his broomstick once more. "Surely now, you can call me, 'Harry', no?"

"No, Lord Potter," she replied, voice tinkling as he departed.

"But soon," she sighed as she turned around and all but skipped back towards the warmth of the castle below.


End file.
